A jumbled mosaic of magazine cuttings, pull-out posters, sliced up singles covers, newspaper spreads, stretched across Paul’s wall. All the bands were there: The Human League, Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, and, of course, Japan. Taking pride of place in the approximate centre of the sprawl was David Sylvian, Japan’s lead singer. David Sylvian holding a guitar, lent back, with swirls of street smoke swirling behind him. Wearing a double-breasted suit, with silver buttons, lipstick, eye shadow, foundation, and looking into the distance on his right. His hair, a huge wave of side-parted, blonde, combed floss, molded into a mass that lifts from all sides, covering his ears, cascading in a thick, purposeful fringe down to his eyebrows, slightly covering his right eye. David Sylvian was the best-looking man in the world and Paul wanted hair just like his.

Paul peeled a smaller photo clipping of Japan’s lead singer, a headshot with the same abundance of hair, from the wall. He rubbed the tiny blobs of BluTack off the back, rolled them into a single piece, pressed it on the wall in the small, empty square where the picture had been. He then slid the precious photo into his pocket and went downstairs.

‘Mum, can I have that four quid?’

‘I’ll have to give you a fiver, so bring me the change. What time is your appointment?’

‘It’s now, in ten minutes.’

‘Well, you’ll have to go in your uniform then. You’ve no time to change.’

At the moment Paul reached to take the five-pound note from his mother, his father walked into the kitchen.

‘What’s he got a fiver for?’

‘He’s off for a haircut. Round at Sandra’s.’

‘Ooh, off for a haircut, eh? Do you want to take a bowl with you for her to cut round?’

‘No. I’m getting it cut like David Sylvian.’

‘Who the bloody hell is David Sylvian?’

Paul retrieved the fragile picture from his pocket and held it out.

‘He’s the lead singer of Japan. He was voted the best-looking man in the world.’

His dad rested his left palm on the countertop, his right hand on his hip, and bent over double, almost touching the floor with his forehead, letting out a room rumbling laugh.

‘Man alive! He was what? Voted best-looking man on Earth? Oh my days! That’s bloody brilliant that is!’

‘Give me the photo back, dad. I have to go.’

‘Voted best-looking man in the world, was he? Bloody hell! If you held a competition for best-looking man in your bedroom, and you were the only voter, you still wouldn’t flaming win it! Classic. Absolutely bloody classic.’

His dad straightened up again and returned the magazine cutting. Paul took it and bolted out of the back door and all the way to Sandra’s Salon.

The door jangled when he entered the hairdressers. Only Sandra was there. She turned to look at him.

‘Come in, pet. You’re Paul, are you? Your mum booked you in I think.’

As Paul walked to the chair Sandra indicated he regained his breath and got the David Sylvian photo ready to show her.

‘How do you want it then, pet?’

‘Can you do it like this please?’

‘Aw, sweetheart, I’m not sure you’ve the volume for that style. Shall I just give you a trim?’

‘Can you try and make it look like the photo please?’

‘The thing is that you don’t have that type of hair. Yours is much thinner, pet.’

Paul didn’t respond. Sandra eyes met his, but neither of them spoke for a moment.

‘Alright, look, I’ll give you a trim and then see what we can do with a bit of gel and a hair dryer. Is that ok, sweetheart?’

‘Yes please.’

For the next thirty minutes Sandra worked at Paul’s hair, lifting up strands, snipping millimetres off the ends which then sprinkled on to Paul’s face, holding up his fringe and sighing, ruffling his scalp, flicking the hair dryer on and off to disperse the fallen hairs from his shoulders, standing back and viewing his head from different angles, and finally placing the scissors and comb on shelf in front of the mirror.

‘I’ll try some gel then. It might lift it a bit, but it’s not going to look like this fella in the photo. It’s just not, pet. Sorry.’

Sandra massaged the blue gunk into his hair, took a round brush, twisted Paul’s hair, and blow-dried sections, lifting, pulling, let out long breaths, moving the strands forward, backwards, side to side, sighed again, and stopped.

‘I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do for you. You just don’t have the same type of hair. Everyone has different hair. That’s just how it is sweetheart.’

Paul managed to mumble thanks Sandra, give the five-pound note, wait for the one-pound change, and wander home.

The next morning Steady and Pete were waiting for him at their usual meeting point to walk the remaining ten minutes to school.

‘Did you get your hair done then?’

‘Yes, at Sandra’s Salon.’

‘Like David Sylvian?’

‘Yes, I took a photo and she did it. It’s fallen out a bit now though. It’s flatter than when she did it.’

‘I’ll say it is! Sorry, Paul, but it looks absolutely nothing like him.’

They didn’t speak again until they entered class for register. When the teacher got to Paul’s name, both Pete and Steady interrupted.

‘Mr. Walson. Sorry, Mr. Walson. Can you move Paul down to ‘S’? His name is David Sylvian now.’

‘What are you pair on about? Stop being daft.’

‘But, sir, he had his hair done like David Sylvian yesterday. We need to change his name.’

‘That’s enough from you two. Shut up now.’

Going from register on the ground floor to Computer Studies on the third, Paul already started getting Japan lyrics sung to him in the corridors. When he walked in the whole room erupted into a clamour of tuneless Japan’s lyrics, cries of ‘here’s the best-looking man in the world,’ and peals of laughter. Paul sloped to the usual computer he shared with Pete and switched it on.

‘Quiet down! Quiet down!’

‘Miss! Miss! We’ve got a famous person in class today. David Sylvian is here!’

Most of the class pointed to Paul as they chorused the first line of Ghosts, their hit song. The commotion bellowed from the room, down the corridors, and into other classrooms.

After dinner break it was time for double Art. On the board was a large poster of Japan, slanted to the right, it’s four corners stuck with sellotape, David Sylvian’s face speckled with blue biro zits, his eyeballs shaded to make him cross-eyed, and finished off with a dribble coming from the side of his mouth. On the blackboard an arrow pointed to him with Paul’s full name in capital letters and the words ‘Japan’s new lead singer. Voted ugliest man in the world.’

Paul went to a seat at the back, using his sweaty palm to press down his hair all around his head, pushing firmer to iron his fringe to his forehead, forcing it toward his eyes as much as he could. During the two hours of double Art he didn’t look up once.

After the four o’clock bell Steady and Pete weren’t at the meeting point. A crowd of about thirty kids from different school years began following Paul home singing, laughing, poking, back-pushing, hair-tousling, and chanting ‘David Sylvian, David Sylvian’. The nearer to home he got the smaller the bunch of followers became, the last one crossing the road in silence as Paul reached his front gate. He went round the back of the house, stepped into the kitchen, dropped his school bag to the floor, and slumped against the closed door behind him. His mum was peeling potatoes at the sink.

‘You alright, love?’

‘Does my hair look okay, mum? Can you see anything different?’

‘Your hair looks fine. It is a little bit different I suppose’

‘Do I look anything like David Sylvian, mum?’

‘Aw, come here, love.’

Paul’s mum put her arms around him, her right palm on the back of his new haircut, his new fringe resting on her left shoulder.

‘Do I mum? Does my hair look like David Sylvian’s?’

‘No, love, I have to be honest, it doesn’t look anything like him. But listen to me, why would you want to look like the second best-looking man in the world anyway?’

Paul went upstairs, chose a cassette to listen to, put it in the slot, closed it, and pressed play. He got his stack of magazines from the top of the chest of drawers next to his stereo, opened the top draw, and took out a pair of scissors.

Paul Kimm

(image is of the esteemed author)

Originally published by Mono in October 2022